“Already?” said Helen, with faltering accents, as she crept to Miss Starke's side while Leonard rose and bowed. “I am very grateful to you, madam,” said he, with the grace that comes from all refinement of idea, “for allowing me to see Miss Helen. Do not let me abuse your kindness.”
Miss Starke seemed struck with his look and manner, and made a stiff half courtesy.
A form more rigid than Miss Starke's it was hard to conceive. She was like the Grim White Woman in the nursery ballads. Yet, apparently, there was a good-nature in allowing the stranger to enter her trim garden, and providing for him and her little charge those fruits and cakes which belied her aspect. “May I go with him to the gate?” whispered Helen, as Leonard had already passed up the path.
“You may, child; but do not loiter. And then come back, and lock up the cakes and cherries, or Patty will get at them.”
“Write to me, brother,—write to me; and do not, do not be friends with this man, who took you to that wicked, wicked place.”
“Oh, Helen, I go from you strong enough to brave worse dangers than that,” said Leonard, almost gayly.
They kissed each other at the little wicket gate, and parted.
Leonard walked home under the summer moonlight, and on entering his chamber looked first at his rose-tree. The leaves of yesterday's flowers lay strewn around it; but the tree had put forth new buds.
“Nature ever restores,” said the young man. He paused a moment, and added, “Is it that Nature is very patient?” His sleep that night was not broken by the fearful dreams he had lately known. He rose refreshed, and went his way to his day's work,—not stealing along the less crowded paths, but with a firm step, through the throng of men. Be bold, adventurer,—thou hast more to suffer! Wilt thou sink? I look into thy heart, and I cannot answer.
